


A Dream of Possibilities

by RoseHeart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Babies, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHeart/pseuds/RoseHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime awakens to sunlight after darkness and a squalling babe after healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dream of Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coraleeveritas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coraleeveritas/gifts), [SandwichesYumYum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/gifts).



> This is for two people that I cannot speak of and thank enough. Looking back at this past year and all we have had to handle, I know that I could not have dealt with my own hurdles without either of you, Coralee and Sandwiches. I am so lucky and grateful to be filled with so much love that you have selfishly and constantly given to me. And so, here is this small gift, to try my hardest at fluff, to try to show you that you make my cold, black heart warm, and to thank you. Always, always thank you.
> 
> You should know that this could not have been down without Tamjlee. I was floundering without you two to guide me and I truly enjoyed and cherished being inspired by her. If not for Tamjlee, I would still be staring at a blank screen muttering "fluff...cotton candy...unicorns...rainbows." You would both be so proud of her. Thank you, Tamjlee, my kindred spirit.

Jaime was awakened by a warm glow lighting his eyelids, the heat of the rays of sun crawling over the windowsill causing him to kick at the furs covering him.  Hissing, his mind slowly recalled the arrow wound on his leg, wrapped and tight but still feeling like a gaping maw cut in his flesh, and the shocks of pain that seeped in to his sleeping thoughts, forced him to sit up.  He would have to get used to daylight, now that winter seemed to have shattered like ice striking stone, just as he would have to get used to rising without reaching for his sword, to smell metal and baking and cold, rather than blood and fire and frost, to hear chatter, not whispered worry, laughter, not screams, the bustle of recovery and living, not the clang of struggle and ending. 

Like it was highlighting the thought, a piercing cry shot through the quiet morning.  With a groan, Jaime palmed his throbbing head, pressing against the folds of linen that were keeping blood from a dagger slice from coating his eyes and cheek. But it did nothing to stop the sudden pumping of his heart as the wails increased in need and unease, slinking through the walls and along the floor to rise up from his toes and stab at his temples. 

“Where the bugger is a wet nurse?” he snapped at no one and nothing. 

There were too few surviving to truly fill all the needs of crumbling and collapsing Casterly Rock.  It had been a desperate search to find women whose milk had not dried up in terror, to help the lost babes without mother or name. Maesters were an even greater struggle and they were forced to find healers from Lannisport to care for all the wounded.  And there had been many wounded. 

When the shrieking persisted, stuttered with wet gasps for air, Jaime rose from the cot heaped with cushions and blankets and hobbled across the small room, cursing at every other step. He could only sort through some of the pieces of his memory, edges trimmed with crimson and pain, recalling Brienne dragging him from the field at the base of the castle, screaming for a horse to bring him inside the gates.  For just a short time, she had stayed with him before she had been called back to battle, but only after she had ensured that he was being cared for. 

“He’s Jaime Lannister,” she had spit with vehemence and pride.  “Your commander. Your lord.  He will not die from an _arrow_.” 

Indeed, he had not.  The infection had been close to ending him, though. For days, the fever had been hotter than dragon’s breath.  He would slip in and out of waking and nightmares, aware that some was real and some were not, but he could not tell one from the other.  Her touch was all that grounded him.  She whispered to him of the sun struggling over the ocean, what was left of the ironborn fleet limping off back to Pyke, while the faction of the Thirteen that had tried to sneak up to Blazewater Bay was burning in the Sunset Sea.  As she stroked his forehead and ran fingers through his beard, her breath fogging his ear, she spoke of hope and rest, meaningless dreams for them both, but she also pleaded and called, drawing him towards her, to keep her company in this new world that neither belonged in. 

So, Jaime was left healing in one of the few rooms, an alcove really, that was not occupied with moaning, writhing bodies or piles of supplies.  Unfortunately, it was located just down the hall from a larger bedchamber that had been converted in to a nursery.  

As he quietly opened the unoiled door, swearing to himself to hunt down the woman that left it so noisy, he saw the rows of cribs. Some had been hastily made from the wood of broken beds and tables found around The Rock, others had been rescued from the pyres, and more had been carted from Lannisport, along with most of the common folk. It was a wild assortment of mismatched furniture, heedlessly strewn about an otherwise empty room. Jaime recalled rocking chairs, small ornate copper baths, and drawers for linens and for changing in Cersei’s rooms after the children had been born, and he cast out.  But there was none of that here. 

The other babes were surprisingly quiet, despite the screaming coming from a crib by the window.  Jaime carefully looked in on each one as he slowly trekked towards the restless child, noting their squirming and sighs, the rise of round bellies as they breathed around the thumb in their mouth.  _At least these may survive_. 

The room opened to archways leading to a balcony, letting in a wash of warm sunlight.  Jaime blinked at blue skies, still tinged with the gray of winter, making out the swell of waves far below them, breaking against the cliffs in white plumes, and he wondered what the small baby could truly be concerned about, on the other side of war.  Perhaps it had never known sunlight.  He could not recall how long the war had raged on, but it could have been enough months to find this squalling cub abandoned in the castle that was his, regardless if he desired it. 

He looked down, finding a plump face pink with rage, lips opened in a scream to reveal nothing but gums and tongue. Tiny fists were balled up and swinging while feet were kicking and stomping in their roughly sewn booties. The child was a girl, Jaime guessed, peering curiously as she paused to fill her lungs and spotting him when her eyes popped open.  They were brown, dark and flecked with gold, ringed with a spray of long lashes. 

She blinked at him, tantrum momentarily forgotten as she had successfully summoned someone to her aide.  But when Jaime did nothing but raise his brows at her, at a loss for what she could want, he watched her scrunch her face up again and resume her terrible howling, interrupted now by hiccups. 

“Shush, shush.  It’s fine,” Jaime murmured, hoping the coo of his voice would calm her. 

But she only grumbled slightly before crying again. Sighing, Jaime tried to think of what Cersei had done with the children when they were fussing. There was no milk to give her thus, feeding her was not an option.  He remembered the wet nurses checking the cloth wrapped around Myrcella’s bottom, but Jaime found this one to be dry.  The women used to walk around with Tommen’s little mouth latched around a finger so, Jaime, after checking again to assure himself there were no teeth, tried to get her to suckle on one of his.  The baby merely tossed her head and continued to demand _something_ from him. 

“Seven hells,” he sighed as he leaned in to the crib to pick her up. 

It was difficult with his stump, but if he nestled her rolling and large head in the crook of his right arm and grasped her wriggling rear in his hand, he could use his wrist to make sure she remained pressed close to his chest.  After some struggle in which he hovered just above the thin padding of her crib, lest she roll right out of his arms, he managed to secure her properly enough to lift her. 

As soon as he had her against his hammering heart, he was surprised to find her quiet immediately, staring up at him as she breathed deeply and hiccupped in a soft, girlish voice, far different from the bellows she had been emitting.  Instinctively, Jaime bounced them slightly, watching her watch him as he began to pace. 

“Good gods, you were screaming that much just for _this_?” he snorted. But he wondered with all the babies in the cribs and the few women they had been able to procure, just how often this little one was held. 

Despite how many children he had fathered, he realized this was the first time that he had ever embraced a babe. He hoped that he was doing it correctly. But by the way she was starting to gurgle and worm herself deeper in to him, he supposed it was enough for the girl. 

“How long am I supposed to do this?” he asked her. “Maybe I should try screaming for your wet nurse, since clearly you were not enough to bring that daft, fat woman running.” He frowned.  Addam would have to search farther for more to help with the children. Perhaps they could begin to quest for the parents as well.  

“Joffrey cried much more loudly than you. I could hear him from the other side of the Keep.” He sighed at the thought, tearing his gaze away to look at the view from his own childhood.  “I suppose you will have one thing to be thankful for, never knowing what a cruel creature he turned out to be.” 

Without the echoing shrieks of the baby, Jaime could hear the rush of the waves coursing beneath the cliffs the castle was carved in to.  The sound lulled him towards memories so far buried that he was not sure if they were dreams or truths. It was gold and salt, laughter and sails, sweet blissful innocence so long swept out to sea that Jaime could hardly taste the carefree smiles he once had, the ones his mother had played with him to see, while his father was a frowning shadow of disapproval and distance. 

Looking down at her again, noticing the pelt of raven hair and the contemplative regard in which she studied him, Jaime had to smile. “No.  You won’t be frightened with tales such as that.” He carefully lifted his stump to feel the soft skin on her cheek and, this time, she turned to try to clamp down on the wrapping of flesh around her skin. “But oh, will there be stories to tell, songs even.” As she gummed him, drawn to watch his lips move as he spoke and his voice, along with the rocking and the hum of the waves, subduing her, Jaime could imagine the life laid out for her.  “You’ll grow up with some woman taking care of you, don’t worry about that, I’ll find you a good one, and she will speak of this war. There will be raised dead, brother fighting against brother, _dragons_ , all the good things that make an adventure.  

“But I’m sure that’s not what you will be eager to hear.  You’ll want to know about the women, the warrior Mormonts, the beautiful Dragon Queen, the vicious Kraken.  I hope, though, that you ask for your favorite, the one that is _my_ favorite.” The baby sighed and smiled at that.  “See? We agree then.  You will always want the tale of the Maid of Tarth, the woman fierce and powerful with blue armor and wielding the mighty Oathkeeper.  No foe could come close to cut her down, for she was protected by purity, honor, and all that ridiculousness.  I’m sure the bards will come up with more beautiful words. Regardless, the Maid was feared by her enemies and loved by her allies.  It was not for her beauty, though.  She had been teased mercilessly, heart broken and love lost.  Even her knight, the one who followed her everywhere, to protect her and care for her, had mocked her, at first.” 

The baby squirmed and yawned, turning her face in to his chest.  “I know. He was a fool. And you don’t care much for his story, hmm? Right, the wench, I mean, the Maid, was revered for her heart, for her strength, and for her righteousness.  And those things, never faded, nor warped, like beauty can. And she caused all the fools to open their eyes and truly _see_ her. She fought bravely during the war, saving many lives, including that of her knight. 

“And her tale, her struggles, her successes, and her happy ending, will be what you listen to as you grow up. Maybe you would like to be a knight, just like she is.  Or perhaps you start your own farm.  Or travel the realm. And if you should want to have children with some fortunate man to win your heart, who treats you kindly and cares for you before himself, then you can tell the same story of the Maid of Tarth to your sons and daughters. 

“How would you like that, little cub?” he asked as he bounced her and set her higher in his arm so that her head was against his shoulder. 

She opened her mouth and Jaime feared she would cry again, but as she hiccupped and eyed him suspiciously, her belly heaved and her fists flailed as white, thick fluid poured from her mouth and down her chin and tunic, coating his own as well. 

“ _Seven buggering hells_ ,” Jaime groaned, looking at the mess on himself and the baby, who merely smiled around the bile and laughed, burping up more vileness. “What am I supposed to do with this?” 

He attempted to keep her head from rolling, recalling nights between battles where men drowned in their own vomit, fearing it to could be the same for a small babe that could not even hold herself up. Grumbling as he felt the stain seep through his clothes, he looked around for something to clean with, disregarding any of the precious, unsoiled linens that kept the children warm and bundled. 

“Here,” came a familiar, welcome, tremulous voice as a torn piece of fabric was tossed over his shoulder. 

Turning to find his knight frowning at his chest and the babe babbling merrily against it, Jaime grinned. “No use, wench. My one hand is a bit full at the moment.” 

Brienne blushed.  “Oh,” she said as she quickly took the cloth. Jaime noticed that her right arm was stiff and she bent it with some difficulty, but he was distracted from the healing wound by the frayed edges of the front of her long tunic, too large even for her, threads hanging down and swinging against her baggy breeches that she had hastily stuffed in to her dirty boots. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jaime murmured, nodding to her. 

“There’s little to be spared, as you know,” she replied.  The corner of her mouth twitched as she hovered the linen near the child.  “There’s still enough of the tunic to serve.” 

Jaime chuckled while watching the little girl trying to snatch the material from Brienne’s fingers.  The wench was able to pull it away but she was wrestling to dodge pudgy, grasping hands to get to the babe’s cheek.  “Did you think I had been carried away by a wight when you found me gone?” 

“No,” Brienne distractedly huffed. She finally managed a swipe and turned the cloth over so that she could keep cleaning, much to the angry protests of the girl, though Brienne was smiling victoriously as she worked. “I’m surprised you stayed in bed for as long as you did, so I expected at some point to see an empty...And I-I could _hear_ you in here.” 

“At least there’s one female that enjoys listening to me.” He looked down at the baby, still fussing and trying to hide her face in the space between his arm and chest, but at least she was not yet screaming her displeasure at Brienne. 

“Did you..did you, um, mean what you said?” she asked as she feigned concentrating diligently on getting the last of the mess. 

Jaime smiled, looking at the ugly splotches that burst against her freckles and the lanks of colorless hair that fell and brushed against her broken nose as she hunched her large form to watch the baby. “Would you think I could lie to such an innocent thing?” 

“She has no idea what you are saying, Jaime,” she rolled her eyes. 

“I’ve grown accustomed to that by now,” he sighed. “Here.” He held out the child to Brienne, forcing her to hurriedly step closer to bring the baby to her own chest. 

“J-Jaime, I’ve no experience with this,” she gasped, though her arms quickly wrapped themselves around the small form, one massive hand cradling the head. 

“Neither have I.  Just take her while I try to get some of this dreadfulness off of me.” 

Though she was trying to object even more, she was interrupted by the sudden angry yowl of the baby just as Jaime had let go and grabbed the cloth.  Brienne’s blue, guileless eyes bulged from her face, which was quickly drained of any blush, as she shot her gaze down in surprise at the child now looking up at her as she cried and kicked.  “Jaime!” 

He struggled to hide his grin as he dipped his head and brushed at the bile on his tunic.  “Try bouncing her,” he yelled over the screams.  “She seemed to like that.” 

While he peeked at the two from beneath his hair hanging in his face, Brienne gently raised her shoulders and dropped them while swaying on her feet, careful not to jostle too much.  Still, the baby shrieked, though she would not take her eyes off of the large woman that held her, as if she was gauging which of them would relent first. 

“Jaime, please,” Brienne groaned without looking away from the reddening little face.  “It’s not working.  Take her.” 

“And have her screech at _me_?” he responded, lazily wiping at the drying spot. 

Brienne shook her head and began moving back towards him, pressing her warm arms to his chest.  “She likes you.  She won’t cry if you’re holding her.” 

“I seem to have a way with all _difficult_ sorts of women, don’t I?” Jaime laughed. He ran his hand and stump from Brienne’s shoulders and caressed down to her elbows until he could wrap up the baby and bring her back to his torso. 

Brienne was too consumed with watching the small child belt out a cry that rang like bells in the room to have even stammered at his touch, encouraging Jaime to stay close when he had secured the child. She hovered between them as they both looked upon her, quiet and curious.  A wet gurgle caused Jaime to hold his breath, but the baby merely giggled around it and fisted his tunic while she sucked on her other hand, turning dark, open eyes to each of them. 

“Will the songs include how terrified children are of me?” Brienne whispered.  She took a long, calloused finger and gently stroked the plump chin, gasping when the girl snatched it with her damp hand and brought it to her mouth so she could run her gums along it. 

“See?” Jaime said.  “She wasn’t scared.  She just sensed your unease.” 

“Ah, and you are a body of calmness?” 

“I’ve slept for four nights,” he shrugged. “A man should be calm after all that rest.” 

The baby started to close her eyes, fighting against sleep to stare at the two, though she would not release Brienne. “It will be a different kind of battle, now.” 

“For us, maybe.  But not for her.” 

“No,” Brienne sighed.  She finally looked at him and Jaime offered her a soft smile as he realized how near they were, almost pressed together with the child held between them.  Neither retreated, though.  And Brienne gave her own smile in return, the sunlight streaming in from the balcony breaking against the warm waters in her gaze.  “Not for her, my knight.” 

Jaime blinked, enjoying how the words tumbled with a rush of breath, knocking against teeth and spilling from wide lips. When he did not reply, simply soaking in the rays beating against his back and the heat of her at his front, she moved to take the child again.  He realized she had fallen back to sleep and as Brienne slowly and gently lowered her back to the crib, he watched the baby take a deep breath and puff it out with a sigh and a smacking of her mouth. 

Moving behind Brienne as she pulled a blanket to the girl’s rising belly and left the precious bit of cloth on the rungs to be cleaned, Jaime reached out to pinch her elbow.  With a lingering look at this new summer child, Brienne shyly turned to him, their arms finally empty of excuses and weapons and cold. He stepped towards her, but she did not retreat.  He tilted his chin up, but she did not turn away.  He pressed his lips to hers, but she did not flinch. 

No, the Maid of Tarth was white sand, supple from washes of salt spray, a wall of teeth as he pushed ever closer, a sigh like blades of grass brushing together, caught in her throat as she tried to kiss him back.  It was a flash, a blink, a heartbeat and then he reluctantly pulled away, their lips straining to remain together, hoping it was an innocent peck like she would have imagined, with her little knowledge of such things, while his heart galloped like a warhorse eager for battle.  Despite how quick it was, when he finally stood back, Brienne was breathing heavily. 

Jaime glanced down at the still sleeping child beside them, remembering the moments he had tried to coax Cersei away from a crib. But Brienne was not a wave of soft, fine fingers, a sneer curled around red lips and white teeth, promises of _later_ that felt like they never came.  She blushed and looked around the room with a gaze he could read just as easily as he could recount his page in the White Book. 

“You should still rest,” Brienne muttered, fidgeting with her torn hem. 

Jaime sighed and laughed at how he must look just like her, young and foolish and gasping.  _Perhaps not young_. “Only if you take your usual spot next to me.” 

“Oh,” she grunted.  “I-I didn’t think…” 

“Neither did I.  Perhaps you and I should start, though.  It seems we have a lot of time to plan for.” 

With a sweep of his remaining arm, Jaime ushered her from the nursery with her rolling eyes nipping at his steps. They quietly picked their way between the cribs, the only sound being the moan and hum of the waves dancing in the caverns beneath their feet.  In them, Jaime heard the echoes of voices long dead, the forgotten laughter, the hidden corridors, the fantasies of lions.  But as Brienne turned back to make sure he was following, he saw only freshly cut wood jutting out from stone, like bones from the flesh, healing wounds, rough and imperfect, soft nights wrapped in the strain of work and secret smiles.  And The Rock was a new thing, born fresh through her eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing and I know nothing.


End file.
